Adaptation
by lies-d
Summary: (JumbaPleakley) Pleakley's physiology makes him susceptible to change. (Finished!)
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: I don't own any of these characters. They all belong to Disney, and god forbid I try to make any money off of them for fear of their megalossal corporate power.

Thanks very muchly to my betareader, Weydrchic (And to Yvonne, the pinch-hitter).

This fic contains Jumba/Pleakley slash, for all of you who are interested to know.

Chapter 1

"Bye! Bye! G'bye!" Lilo waved through the window at the departing Pleakley family. Beside her, Pleakley waved until their ship just out of sight, and then collapsed onto the couch with a gigantic sigh of relief.

"I am _so_ glad that they're gone!"

Fibber, perched on a shelf nearby, kept his peace.

"They're not so bad," Lilo said. "They do love you, and they didn't actually make you get married – "

"Hmmph," Jumba interrupted from where he sat nearby, rubbing a cold compress on his poor swollen finger, that had been so recently damaged by Pleakley's tiny wedding ring. "I think is good idea. One-eye _should _be getting married soon. Maybe not to ugly girl chosen by mother, but at least to be marrying someone of same species."

"Why?" asked Lilo, defensive of Pleakley's rights. "Nani said _I _can get married whenever I want to, to whoever I want to, and…and even if I don't want to that's okay."

"_You_ are being human. Your one-eyed aunt here is being Plorginarian." Jumba cupped his mouth and leaned in to whisper to Lilo conspiratorially, "_He_ has to be worrying about _plorg-morphosis._" Chuckling, he returned to his ministrations, as Pleakley frowned indignantly.

"What's –"Lilo started.

"Plorg-morphosis is just a stupid myth!" Pleakley said testily.

"There have been _scientifically documented cases_, that are even still being studied in basic xenobiology classes," Jumba stated smugly.

"Well – it hasn't happened on Ploozork or any of the colonies in at least five centuries," Pleakley countered.

"Welll – that's because most Plorginarians have been having the brains to be married by the time they reach your age, if they are being in your situation – "

"WHAT IS plorg-morphisis?!"

Pleakley looked at Lilo and quickly switched emotional gears. Waving his hand dismissively, he chortled as though she'd asked a very silly question like _Do dinosaurs' livers have scales?_ "Oh _that! _Hahahaha," he began airily. "That's just an old story that Plorginarian mothers tell their kids so that they can scare them into marrying whoever they want."

Jumba shook his head and chuckled again at Pleakley's expense.

"You see, little girl…well, it is going like this: your big sister, has, I believe, already been telling you about the birds and the little buzz buzz insects, no?"

Lilo wrinkled her nose. "Yeaah. . ."

Pleakley stamped his foot petulantly, unsure of whether to remain angry at Jumba or try to keep up his façade of being blasé about the topic. Retreat was clearly the only option. "I'm not liiiistening!!" he shouted as he fled to his bedroom.

Jumba smiled. "Well, it is sort of being connected. A long time ago, did you know that Plorginarians were being one of the very first races in the Galactic Empire to explore space?"

Stitch, who had just returned from the kitchen with a snack to sit down beside Lilo, shook his head. "Ich."

"Well, they were, and long before the human race was even sitting in caves with big clubs and such, too. The Plorginarians made colonies on other planets, other planets where there were being also other aliens to, ah, be interacting with. And sometimes not so many Plorginarians around. And they…" Jumba gestured with his hand to help the words flow. "Began to be _evolving_ a most curious trait. They could, ah…" Scratching the back of his head, Jumba considered how to explain. "Big sister has told how there needs to be one girl human and one boy human to be making little baby human, yes?"

Lilo nodded.

"And also there needs to be girl chicken and boy chicken to be making eggs, and girl and boy dogs to be making puppies, and so on. . .just like if I want to find wife for to marry I would have to be going back to Kweltikwaan or one of the colonies, well. . ." Jumba chuckled merrily.

"Imagine if there was one little chicken, that if that chicken was to be left all alone on a planet full of doggies, then could be _changing_, could be adapting, to be able to be marrying any little doggy it wants, and be making little puppies with wings and beaks." Jumba slapped his knee and roared with laughter.

"Cool!" said Lilo. "So you could make chicken-fish mutants, or horrible chicken-bear monsters!?"

"There you are having it! Except in this case it would be little half-Plorginarian hybrids that would be resulting. He –" Jumba sniggered as he gestured towards the bedroom. "He could be marrying a pineapple tree if he was left along with long enough, and be sprouting little pine-Pleakley seeds in no time. Is very adaptive form of reproduction."

Stitch barked with laughter while Jumba checked on his still-swollen finger.

"That is why Mommy Pleakley wants him to getting married in such big hurry, when older siblings can do what they like. _They _live on Plorginarian colonies. But for our one-eyed friend, time is running away. He has been working for the Galactic Empire for many cycles, away in those big ships full of aliens of all types, and now here surrounded by, geh, humans and animals and experiments and not a Plorginarian in sight. Could be bad for him. Could begin _plorg­-morphosis_ soon."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­  
­­ Slowly, Jumba opened the door to their bedroom and peeked inside. Pleakley was lying in bed, curled up with his back to the door. A rustle of covers indicated that he was still awake, pulling the blankets tighter around himself with what sounded suspiciously like a sniffle. With a sigh, Jumba edged inside and closed the door softly behind him. Stepping over to the wardrobe, he felt around for his pajamas with one hand while the other fiddled with the ridiculously tiny buttons on his shirt. He hoped he could get to bed without a big fuss, but it was probably unlikely.

"Jumba?"

_Oh, here it is coming. _"Yes, Pleakley?" Jumba replied.

"I thought. . .I thought you wanted to help me."

Jumba sighed and turned around, trying his best to sound gentle. "I _do _want to be helping you. You are knowing this."

"Well, _you _know how much I don't want to be pushed into anything I don't want to do. I. . ." Pleakley's voice cracked a little at the end – it sounded like he really was hurt. Jumba's fists balled for a second involuntarily, in annoyance both at himself for being so insensitive earlier and at Pleakley for being so _touchy_. He really had meant what he'd said, and he thought it was time for Pleakley to start thinking about his concerns. But still, he supposed he could have broached the topic more diplomatically than dragging out Plorginarian physiology as a joke for their entire 'ohana. He turned back around and continued to change for bed. "That is not my intentions, my friend. I am only saying that it should be time for you to be pushing yourself into finding something that you _do _want."

"But I _know_!" Pleakley half-turned to look at Jumba, defiant hope flickering across his face, only to falter when he saw Jumba's back turned to him, his head shaking already.

"How could you say those things when you know. . .how I feel about you?" Pleakley finished what he had started saying, then turned back around sadly.

Jumba sighed again. "I am saying these things because I am concerned you should be doing what is best for yourself. And you are _knowing _that what you want right now is not. . .is not for best. Is not good - "

"I don't care about plorg-morphosis!!" Pleakley burst out angrily. "And my mother doesn't care either! Of course we _know_ that it's happened before, and that it might even happen again, but there's such a low chance that it doesn't even matter!" He sat up. Fully pajama clad, Jumba had turned to listen to his friend rant – Pleakley stared him in the eye. "I don't think a petty concern like that even warrants mentioning! It would be. . ._this _would be worth the risk."

Jumba crossed his arms. It was remarkable how listening to Pleakley's outbursts had the effect of keeping him calm. "My friend, you are underestimating all the risks of having what you want. Drastic changes in physiology can be very dangerous and painful, even to those who are physiologically adapted to –"

"I don't care!"

"_Not _to be mentioning all of the messiness that can come along with having _relationship _–"

"I don't care!"

"_Also_. . ." Jumba began self-assuredly, but checked himself. "Also, there is fact that. . .what you want, _I_ do not want. Not like that," he stated gently. He didn't like to say it – he knew it hurt Pleakley very much, but if he wasn't going to accept any other hint then there was no other way. Jumba approached the bed and sat down beside Pleakley, who was looking down at his feet with an unreadable expression. "I am being very sorry."

"But. . .you _love _me. I _know_ that you do – this whole thing wouldn't have started if I wasn't _sure_. . ." said Pleakley, spending the last of his desperation and sinking back into blank despair.

Jumba put one hand on Pleakley's shoulders.

"I _do _love you, my little one-eyed one. You are best friend I have ever had. . you are 'ohana. But. . ." Jumba shook his head.

Pleakley closed his eye. Shrugging off Jumba's hand, he pulled the covers over himself, turned over, and curled up back into bed.

Jumba stayed for a few quiet moments, then resignedly got up to go to his own bunk.

"I wrote another letter for you." Pleakley said softly, just as Jumba was about to climb the ladder up to his bunk. "It's over on the dresser."

With a sad smile Jumba turned and picked up the envelope on the dresser that he hadn't since noticed at all – marked 'to Jumba' in Pleakley's best script. He opened it, read it, then carefully folded it back up and put it in the drawer where he kept all the rest of Pleakley's love letters.

"It's very nice, Pleakley," sighed Jumba. And it was. Florid in some parts and written with that foolish enthusiasm that Jumba found so endearing, the letter was nonetheless very tender and heartfelt. Jumba had never had anything so beautiful written to him.

Pleakley was crying. His thin shoulders wrapped in blankets shook with sobs. Jumba sat back down on the bed and gently stroked his arm, trying his best to console his friend.

"Why do you love me like this? I would make very bad mate for you. I don't. . .I. . ." Jumba ran one hand over his head. "I tell you what – I give you number for ex-wife – you call _her _and she will give you list long as your arm why I am rottenest husband in galaxy." Jumba smiled, trying to lighten the mood. "List long as your arm with little wee tiny script, eh?"

Pleakley was inconsolable, but Jumba was determined to stay and keep him company until his pain subsided. When he began to feel the exhaustion of the long day and Pleakley was still crying, Jumba nudged him over and settled into sleep beside him, _still _ignorant of the customs on Earth and in many parts of the galaxy that deemed sleeping with someone as meaningful of _more_. On Kweltikwaan it was only a means of conserving heat energy, but here. . .well, here Pleakley was only grateful for the momentary excuse to _pretend._

Pleakley curled up into the warm security of Jumba's arms and fell asleep to the sound of his breathing.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Notes: Once again, thanks to my loverly betareader, WyrdChic. Thaaank youuuu!

Chapter 2

"He does _what? _You don't say! Well, you know, I don't know. I've never caught him before, but I'll have to start looking from now on. Oh, and – yes?. . .Yes, I knew about _that! _I know what you mean! So could you please tell me. . .is it just some kind of Kweltikwaanian thing to chew on toenails? Uh huh. Yep. . .I thought so."

Jumba looked in surreptitiously on Pleakely, sitting up in bed with his phone. His mother didn't usually call in the middle of the afternoon – he wondered who it could be.

Glancing over casually at the door, Pleakley just happened to spy Jumba peaking in on him. Pleakley smiled and gave him a little wave, so Jumba just waved back and pushed the door open to enter the room

"Dear – I'm sorry, I have to go now. Yes. . .yes. I'll call you again later. Thank you _so _much. You take care of yourself, now. Buh-bye!" Pleakley closed the phone and smiled up sunnily at Jumba.

"I came for to see if you were feeling any better, but here I find you are so well you will not even be needing the souped chicken that little girl and 626 are making for you."

Pleakley fluffed the pillow he'd been leaning up against. He'd been in bed all day and it was starting to get a little flat.

"Well, my tummy still isn't quite in tip-top shape yet, but I am feeling a bit better than I was earlier." Pleakley held up his phone. "I, ah, took your advice and looked up your ex-wife. You never told me she was such a _nice _person. And so funny! I could have talk to her all day long!"

Jumba frowned. "Yes – she can be nice when she is wanting to. But when she is wanting to be not-nice – best for to watch out!"

"Hmmph," Pleakley replied. "I think she's just _lovely_. And she did make me feel better. In a way. It's nice to have somebody to talk to, about, you know – stuff."

Jumba shook his head. That_ stuff_ was exactly the topic he didn't want to talk about, even thought he'd actually come to address a subject very closely relating to it.

"Pleakley, I came to ask you. . .if you could be giving me permission to give you medical examination."

Pleakley waved his hand dismissively. "It's just a bit of a fever. Thanks for your concern, but I'll sure I'll be just fine."

"It is not your fever that I am being worried about. Well – it is in a sort-of-way. I am believing that this fever, and the aches in your tummy and all the rest, could be a sign of. . .something more serious."

"Now _don't _you start that again!!" Pleakley crossed his arms.

"I _will _be starting again because I think there is a concern here –"

"The only thing I'm concerned about is that it might be the Vardian flu. I _hate _getting the Vardian flu." Pleakley pouted at the thought.

Jumba sighed. "The symptoms you are experience have all been recorded in textbooks as possibly indicative of –"

"Jumba, they could be indicative of anything from Hasol fever to the early stages of Rangorian blue death. It's probably just an Earth cold of some sort."

Jumba took a chair by the desk. He scratched the back of his head. "Well, there have been _other _symptoms. . ."

Pleakley waited for Jumba to elaborate, then wrinkled his brow in frustration when he didn't.

"_What _other symptoms? What other symptoms could there be? I've told you all of them!"

"I have reason to believe. . .that you are starting to produce pheromones. Kweltikwaanian pheromones."

Pleakley laughed off the suggestion. "What? That's ridiculous! And how would you know that anyways, if you say you haven't done any tests yet?"

"I don't need any tests to detect Kweltikwaanian pheromones – I can smell them."

"You can't smell pheromones! They're odourless," Pleakley pointed out.

"Believe me, my friend, I know a Kweltikwaanian pheromone when I smell one," Jumba replied. "They make my pleebo twitch," he muttered.

"What was that?" asked Pleakley.

"Nothing, nothing. Look, you are needing very much to be examined! These changes could already be happening, for all we are knowing!"

"No. You're not examining me!"

"Just a small peek –"

"What is this, a peek show? You're not peeking at _anything!!_"

"Now please to be being _reasonable._This will only take small minute." Stepping a bit closer, Jumba held his hands up to placate his friend.

Pleakley shrieked and pulled the covers up to his chin.

"NO! NO! NO!!! Leave me alone! Get out! Get out, I said!! You, you _masher_! GET OUT!!" He started throwing his pillows at Jumba, forcing the bewildered Kweltikwaanian towards the door.

Deciding it would be best to comply with his hysterical friend and perhaps try again later, Jumba finally retreated, slumping in exasperation against the closed door behind him.

Unfortunately, Pleakley's extreme reluctance continued for quite a few days, until Jumba had to promise not to try anything simply in order to get in the room and sleep on his own bunk.


	3. Chapter 3

It was getting a little hard for Pleakley to breathe. It seemed as thought there was very little air in the room. He stared up at the mattress of Jumba's bunk above him and gasped like a fish out of water as something akin to pain rippled through his body in great rolling surges.

He sat up. He was cold. No – warm. His skin prickled and his insides churned. The not-quite pain was relentless. He swung his legs off the side of the bed and wrapped his blanket tightly around his shoulders.

He'd been sweating. The bath was inviting. Softly he padded out across the hall to bathroom. He had to stop to lean on the doorframe while the black spots in front of his vision abated. Hot bath, or cold? He decided on lukewarm. Leaving the blankets in a pool on the floor, he took off his nightgown and sat down in the tub, waiting for the water to fill it up. The watermark only made it a couple of inches high before he shut the faucet off and lay gulping for breath on the cold ceramic.

The not-quite pain fairly vibrated through him now, creating a sensation of warmth and heaviness that seeped into every part of his body. He closed his eye. It was getting easier to breathe.

Strange images and feelings were bleeding into his thoughts. Things he'd never seen – sensations he'd never felt before. Bizarre things. It was like slipping into somebody else's dream – he knew the iconography was significant in ways that would unlock the secrets of the psyche if it could be decoded. . .but to him it was all just gibberish and flotsam. He didn't even try to understand it, just let it float by and melt through him like atmosphere. Except now he was the atmosphere and he was dissipating oh _oh_.

He didn't even notice that he'd left the door wide open and the lights off. If you'd asked him his name at that point he couldn't have told you. His breath came in and out and for a little while he was gone.

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Jumba was dreaming. It was one of those nice dreams – the _nice _dreams, where the world consisted of a heavy, intoxicating fog of lust and anything was possible. His ex-wife was there – of course she was, the horrible she-trog. Nobody could stir him to such an excess of passion, whether it be desire or hatred. In the light of day he wouldn't want to travel within three quadrants of her insanity, but here all three moons over Kweltikwaan were full, and very little mattered but the great curves of her body and _oh joy of joys,_ that girl he knew back in the student labs was coming over to join them. . .

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Jumba rolled over in his sleep, slinging his arm over Pleakley's shoulder and making those soft snuffly noises that were so comforting to Pleakley each night while he slept. Tonight they were even more so, for reasons that Pleakley didn't even bother to question.

Dazed and weak, Pleakley was still fighting the strange fever that made his vision blur and his hands shake. Jumba wouldn't mind that he'd pulled himself up to sleep in his bunk beside him.

In the morning he'd give Jumba permission to conduct that examination that he'd been harping about all week. Maybe there really _was_ something wrong with him. Whatever it was, Pleakley was sure Jumba could help. He felt better just being beside him now, feeling the warmth of his body nestled against him, with the earthy musk of his skin soothing his nerves like a balm.

Pleakley took Jumba's hand in his own, a pleasure he allowed himself sometimes when Jumba was fast asleep and wouldn't ever know. He loved to look at Jumba's hands, compare them to his own, feel their every crease and callous and imagine what it would feel like – those fingers, that palm, running across his skin. . .

Tonight he took Jumba's hand and folded it over his own. His hand nestled warm, safe, and loved, inside of Jumba's. It made him feel. . .something bigger than crying. A chasm so deep he could barely fathom it. His very cells _ached_. . .

Pleakley turned to face Jumba, staring up at his face with utter longing. He inched closer, until he was able to feel his chest pressed against his own, the steady thump of his heart through their nightclothes.

Pleakley leaned up. He could feel Jumba's breath warm on his face.

Gently he kissed the side of his mouth, and drew back. The simple act brought such a rush of deep, warm pleasure that Pleakley thought he might lose himself again.

He closed his eye for a moment.

He leaned up for another, this time on Jumba's cheek. Then another, on his brow. There was nothing else in the world anymore, but that beloved face, and sweet, stolen kisses.

---------------------------------

Jumba awoke when he realized that the skin beneath his hand was smooth and damp, not soft and downy. His eyes weren't quite opened yet – he took a moment to register how slender was the form beneath his fingers. Apparently it was a waist, because as he ran his hand downwards he discovered a leg. . .and another, and yet another. . .

And between them. . .

There was low, mewling cry and Jumba opened his eyes.

"Hmm?" Jumba mumbled softly.

Pleakey stared up dazedly from where he'd just had his cheek pressed up against the side of Jumba's face. He looked a bit strange – Jumba realized that his pupil was hugely dilated. His face shone with perspiration, and his breathing was shallow and rapid.

Jumba blinked stupidly. His fingers still lingered on the spot he'd discovered earlier – he moved them slightly and Pleakley cried out again, his eye rolling back briefly into his head and his grip tightening around Jumba's body.

Jumba realized what was happening – who he was and who it was that was here with him. Slowly, he removed his fingers from where they rested. Dimly, he realized that Pleakley's nightgown was hiked up around his hips, and his pliant legs slung up around his waist.

"Pleakley?" he asked sleepily.

Pleakley looked up at him dazedly for a long moment. . .and then another. Finally he lowered his eye, shame creeping up onto his face in crimson brushstrokes. But still his body pressed itself against Jumba, and he drew himself up to lay a long, slow kiss against Jumba's cheek. He looked up again at Jumba, dazed and terrified.

"Pleakley. . .what are you doing?"

Pleakley shook his head and closed his eye. He drew himself up to lay another slow kiss against Jumba's lower lip. A tear began to make its way down his cheek.

"I don't know," Pleakley replied, shaking his head again. He looked up to meet Jumba's eyes, fear making itself felt through the whole length of his body in little shivers that Jumba could feel all the way down his own spine.

It seemed to Jumba as thought he were still asleep. The deep, intoxicating fog of lust still clouded his vision, softening every hard edge and granting all sensations a supple, dream-like consistency.

Heavy-lidded, Jumba smiled. Pleakley was still crying. When he leaned up for another kiss, Jumba met him halfway, and they both gave themselves up to the overwhelming swell of instinct that rendered them insensate to rational thought.

--------------------------------

There was a good deal of fumbling, that night, and ripping of clothes. The Kweltikwaanian way of making love is not much different from the human way, and it turned out to be as good a way as any for this particular encounter, although that fact in itself was a bit of a surprise. Plorginarians _were_ always known for their flexibility and elasticity, and thought Pleakley's addled mind had very little idea what was going on, his body seemed to know the procedure involved in this collaboration to produce a great deal of pleasure for both parties involved.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

It was morning now. Sunlight from the half-open window dappled the floor through the curtains and the shrubbery outside. The two occupants of the top bunk dozed restfully, enveloped by the smell of warm skin and blankets.

There wasn't any reason that Jumba could discern why he should be feeling so good right now. He just did. His toes, sticking out of the covers at the end of the bed, twitched jauntily to a tune that wafted up from a fading dream. Still half-mired in sweet slumber, Jumba yawned heavily and threw one hand over his belly to scratch his hip. Ah – Pleakley had climbed up to join him again. The Plorginarian was still stretched across his torso, warm and cozy against his bare skin.

Yep – that sure was a lot of bare skin. Jumba could feel it, underneath his hand at Pleakley's waist, up where Pleakley's head was stirring against his shoulder, and down. . .where. . .

Jumba opened his eyes.

"_Pleakley?_"

Pleakley's eye was wide open now too. His jaw hung limp and over the skin of his cheeks the dull red stain of embarrassment and shock was spreading.

Jumba was staring at Pleakley. Pleakley had half-lifted himself up was staring down between them to where they were still. . .stuck together.

Slowly, Jumba lifted his hand off of Pleakley's waist. He couldn't quite see over his belly to where Pleakley was staring, but he could feel it, and he was having a hard time believing what he felt. Dazedly he laid his head back down on the pillow and stared up at the ceiling.

Pleakley summoned his legs back into use and gingerly, awkwardly, began to lift himself off of Jumba. The red stain on his cheeks remained, but he'd regained control of his jaw and his lips were now drawn in a thin line across his face.

Jumba winced in sympathy and looked over to Pleakley. "You are not being. . .hurt?"

"Nope." Pleakley replied. His sober expression did nothing to convey whatever it was he might be feeling right now. Or rather, it did a good job of hiding those expressions overtly, but Jumba knew that he was storing up for a nice, loud hysterical fit. Considering the situation, it wasn't uncalled for.

Surprisingly, Pleakley remained calm. He slid himself off of the top bunk and began to pick though the mess of clothes at the foot of the bed for his nightgown.

Jumba sighed and brought one hand up to rub the sleep from his eyes. Slinging his feet over the edge of the bed, he looked around blearily for his own clothes, but there was nothing left on the top bunk except his blanket.

"Could you please be passing me my undershorts?" Asked Jumba.

Pleakley handed them to him wordlessly. They were torn. He'd only had one hand to take them off because at the time his other hand had been occupied with its fingers right up Pleakley's. . .

Jumba groaned and covered his face with his hand at the sudden, vivid memory.

"Pleakley. . ." He began, struck with the rare feeling that _this _was something that needed talking about. But Pleakley was already gone, having slipped into his nightgown, grabbed some new clothes and a towel from the dresser, and headed towards the shower.

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For the rest of the day, Jumba was constantly in the state of having just missed Pleakley. After he'd finally dragged himself out of bed and gotten dressed, he found Lilo and 626 at the breakfast table eating fresh pancakes that Pleakley had made, but after inquiring as to his friend's whereabouts learned that he'd just left to bring Nani the packed lunch she always forgot. To his question about whether Pleakley seemed to be acting odd – two shrugs, a 'no' and an 'ich'.

Nani, down at the scuba shack, said Pleakley had gone to the beach a few miles upshore to deliver the new set of goggles to David for her.

David told him that he'd said something about going to pick up some groceries from Mrs. Hasagawa – you could still see his distinctive footprints in the sand headed towards town. From their uneven gait it was clear he'd been walking a little funny.

The trail ended at Mrs. Hasagawa's.

"Beakey!? Well, I never! Didn't anyone ever teach you some manners, young man?" Jumba couldn't have guessed that Mrs. Hasagawa was deeply sensitive about her nose, stemming from an unfortunate childhood surrounded by very insensitive classmates (you know how cruel children can be). The old lady rarely got very riled anymore, but today was the exception and before he could explain himself further, Jumba got the hose.

Clothes sopping wet, Jumba decided to make a strategic retreat. He was worried for his friend – Pleakley wasn't usually the one in their relationship to avoid emotional confrontation like this. Maybe some time alone would help him sort his feelings out. And if by chance Pleakley didn't come around by the end of the day, well, Jumba would think of something.

When an evil genius is out to find you, you'll find that you won't be able to hide for very long.

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_Phew_.

It had been a long day for Pleakley. Without even having to look very hard, he'd found that he had a million things to do – all those little things you never get around to doing until you have some extra time. He did have all day to avoid Jumba, and his mother had always said that work would expand to fit the time allotted to it. So here he was, sitting in the garden shed at the end of the day, eating a sandwich and waiting for the sun to go down so he would be forced to gather his courage and go inside the house. Or call his mother to tell her the truth and say _please come get me off this rock I'll plead with the council I'll live as an outlaw anything ANYTHING just please getmeoutofhere!!! _Either way he would need some courage, and it didn't look forthcoming.

He stepped out the garden shed and looked towards the house. Slowly, he found his gaze being drawn away towards the garden, where _thank goodness _there was still one more task left to occupy him while put off the inevitable. Blessed, blessed weeds.

Pleakley got to his knees and tenderly began to pluck the stubborn plants from where they crowded his vegetables – perhaps, he decided, to be put in a pile and replanted somewhere else. Near the shrubs maybe, where they wouldn't bother anyone. Not only would it fill up twice as much time, but he was feeling grateful to the little things, and also suddenly sympathetic.

His sister Plixley could find him a good, expensive, _discreet _doctor somewhere offworld. This was a family matter now – none of them would want the shame of having produced the first case of plorg-morphosis in over half a millennium. Still, it would have to be reported to the Council if he wanted to be relieved of his mission. Which he did want.

He didn't belong here anymore. He didn't know where he would, now. He'd never really felt at home on Ploozark, or at the Academy, or on any of the ships upon which he'd served. Only here, on this little wet rock called Earth, with his 'ohana. But he couldn't stay here anymore, not after what he'd done – after what he'd become.

Though he was crouched carefully, that. . .spot between his legs that absurdly, impossibly, _hadn't been there _just a few weeks ago still ached over last night's exertion. Pleakley desperately tried to ignore it. He simply couldn't dwell on the new feelings, the new instincts and sensations that his body was developing.

It was like going through puberty again, though Plorginarian puberty had been worldsdifferent from this. For one thing, Plorginarians normally reproduced through a sort of _spawning _technique, involving copious amounts of liquid and very little actual physical contact, except for a sort of leg-caress motion that occurred while both parties circled one another in whatever pool they'd chosen. Most Plorginarian youth went through a long period of preoccupation with their knees.

Not so for Kweltikwaanians, apparently. The point of emphasis was a little. . .higher. All of the instincts that Pleakley once had previously were beginning to disappear, to be replaced with new ones that he found completely baffling. Why did the sight of a cucumber or a long squash have to excite him so? Why did he suddenly favour the texture of firm, hard rock over the softness yieldingness of say, a pillow or a curtain? He was just now beginning to understand why humans were so obsessed with images of trains, tunnels, towers and caves, but he still found it a little. . .disturbing. It was all so. . .primal and uncivilized, in a way that Plorginarian reproduction had never seemed to be.

And yet it was so _good_.

Last night. . .Pleakley could _not _think about last night. It had been like wasting away from thirst – no, of being burnt alive, without ever having known what water was. Wanting something so desperately you could die for lack of it, but without even knowing what it is that you want, what it is that you _need. _And then, suddenly, it's there. _Oh Ploozark_, yes, it's right _there, _surrounding you, drowning you, never quite extinguishing you because you still want _more _and soon you're completely overwhelmed, being carried away by wave upon wave upon wave. . .

Hell, yes, it had been good. If Jumba were here right now. . .well, Lilo had better not be at the window, because the gardening shack was too far away and it was probably too small anyways and the ground in the garden had a nice bounce to it because of the peat moss he'd added last month. . .

Except of course nothing like that would ever _really _happen. Pleakley would simply deliver the speech he'd been composing in his head all day: he was sorry about the whole mess, yes, he would look into finding a doctor, no, it wouldn't ever happen again because he'd be sleeping in the ship from now on and did he mention he was sorry sorry sorry sorry?

And sorry, no. . .he still wouldn't allow Jumba to perform the examination personally, despite his fevered resolution of last night. He didn't want Jumba to have to look at him again, to have to see the unnatural mess that were his new reproductive organs.

Jumba did love him. Of this Pleakley had always been sure. He'd been the truest friend Pleakley had ever had. Only a friend, but still.

Pleakley knew he was disgusting. He'd felt it, weeks ago, when this had all started. He'd seen it this morning, in Jumba's face. He was sure that when he told his family about it he'd see the same thing in their eyes. It hurt all the more to know that he could still be so disgusting to someone who loved him.

What could you say to that? There really was nothing left _to_ say. He'd been hiding all day, trying to find the courage to face up to the fact that it was over. It was all over: his mission, his friendship, his happy 'ohana here on this pretty little planet.

He would go away, live out the rest of his life as a freak, caught between worlds. He could look into reversing the process, reverting himself back to normal Plorginarian physiology – but he knew he would never be the same as he was, and in fact he'd never been truly normal to begin with. He could also look into re-shaping his body into a more Kweltikwaanian form, through bio-engineering or limb replacement or a number of modern medical options. Still, he knew he could never attain the kind of beauty that would make Jumba want him the way he'd once wanted his ex-wife, and he sort of _liked _the shape of his body as it was now.

There was no help for it. He'd just have to leave. But not now. Now, at least, he was still in the garden, picking weeds, with the rest of his 'ohana waiting inside for him so they could start supper.

Pleakley hummed to himself while he worked. As he approached the middle of the garden, he noticed an odd patch of red on the ground behind one of the pepper trees.

"Well, hello there little fella! Who left you out here all alone?"

It was a wig. A good quality one, too. Monofilament production, with long, _cherry cordial _locks in an 'angelique' design, with a hand-tied front for maximum styling freedom and an ever-so-slight wave.

Pleakley picked it up carefully and dusted away the few twigs that had dared to mar its silky perfection. Glancing around to see if anyone was looking, he took off the sunhat that he'd decided on for the day and tried it on. It was a perfect fit.

"Well, I think I'm just going to have to take care of you from now on, cutie-pie. I have a feeling you and I are going to be the best of friends."

Only a few feet away, Pleakley happened to spy another wig, this one a lovely mahogany brown with just a hint of darker highlighting. And further on,_ another _one, and then another, and yet another.

The trail just kept on getting better – blonde wigs, red wigs, brown wigs, in every style and texture imaginable. There was one with a high-top retro 60's look, a green one for parties or just for fun, and oh, look – he didn't have any long dreadlocks yet. Tickled pink, Pleakley ambled further and further behind the house, picking up another wig every few feet. He didn't even notice that he'd been led right to the base of the open spaceship hatch until suddenly the trail stopped, and there he was.

"Aha! I have you now!" With surprising speed, Jumba stepped out from behind a nearby clump of bushes, slung Pleakley over his shoulder, and carried him up into the ship. By the time Pleakley overcame his shock, the spaceship hatch was already closed and nobody in the house could hear him screaming bloody murder.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

"AAAAAGH!!!!! HELP, somebody! I'm being KIDNAPPED, _no, _I'm being _MURDERED_. SOMEBODY please _HELP ME!!!"_

Slung across Jumba's shoulder, Pleakley pounded his fists hysterically against Kweltekwaanian's back, screaming and shouting all the while.

After he'd finished entering in the locking code on the hatch door, Jumba finally put him down.

Pleakley immediately threw himself against the hatch, scrabbling for purchase, but it wouldn't budge. Still shrieking his head off, he pulled vainly on the latch with all of his might.

Jumba backed away. He thought it best to just let him be for a minute. A little shouting never hurt anyone, or at least so went the Jookiba family motto. It would probably help work off whatever tension the Plorginarian no doubt still had over this morning's shock. Besides, Jumba needed to focus his attention on working the controls of the camera-sized device that hung around his neck, newly perfected this afternoon. It had worked fine on the tomato-plant trial run, but there was always a bug or two that didn't come out until after the first couple of uses. He turned a few dials and lifted it up to eye level.

There was a very bright flash.

This was it. The end. Goodbye, cruel world, too harsh for delicate souls like Wendy Pleakley.

Eye screwed shut, Pleakley flattened himself up against the hatch, spending all of his breath in one last, long wail.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHH!!" Inhale. "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!"

"Could you be _calming down, _please?! I am not going to be hurting you. Murder – honestly! Be getting grip on yourself, my friend."

Panting, Pleakley sagged against the door latch, letting his forehead rest on the cool metal.

"Don't _do _that do me!" With shaking arms, Pleakley pushed himself up into a sitting position. "Don't you _DO_ that to me! Do you hear? Ever! I was so scared. . .I, I thought..."

"You thought what?" Jumba shot back, letting a flash of aggravation get the better of him until he pulled his attention away from the device in his hands to Pleakley's half slumped form. Face buried in his hands, shoulders shaking softly, Pleakley was crying.

Jumba put his device down, leaving it to hang from his neck by its thin strap, and stepped forward to kneel in front of Pleakley. In an instinct to comfort his friend, Jumba raised his hand to hover for a moment over Pleakley's shoulder before deciding that after all that had passed between them, his touch might not be welcome, and letting it drop to his side.

"Pleakley, you must know that I would not want to do anything that would be hurting you. Ever."

Pleakley quickly wiped his face, nodding and trying his best to appear recovered. "I know. I thought, well. . .I just _wasn't_ thinking, that's all. I've just. . .It's just all been so. . .well, you know."

Jumba nodded. "Yes. I know."

Pleakley dabbed his cheeks with a handful of his sarong. "And you really did scare the living goo out of me. What was that thing?"

"That. . .thing? OH! You are meaning my new Insta-Geneto Medic Diagnosticator!"

"Insta-whaa?"

"Am still working on name. ...Anyway, it is taking instant diagnostic workup of your insides, so that there is no need for medical examination you have been so worried about." Jumba stood up and patted the little device.

"My. . .insides?"

"Yes. All right here." Jumba looked into the viewer and pressed a few buttons to make sure it had been captured properly.

"_My_ insides? Right there? The ones you're looking at right now?" Pleakley got up to tentatively reach out for the device.

"Yes, there they are. Hold on, you can look after I'm done."

Cheeks flushed, Pleakley reached up to try to swipe the device from Jumba's hand, but only succeeded in knocking it from his fingers.

"Hey!"

Pleakley reached again for the device, but Jumba raised it up out of his reach.

"Hey – I am working here!"

"Did you ever think that maybe I don't want anyone looking around at my insides without my _permission?_"

Jumba considered this. "Well, then may I be having your permission?"

Pleakley frowned. "No, you may not!"

"Oh come on now, be _reasonable!_"Jumba could only cater to Pleakley's mood swings up to a point – this was going too far. "You should have had examination weeks ago. At this point it has become absolutely imperative!"

"What could be so important that you would need to completely ignore that little Galactic Empire charter about _personal health privacy_?"

"I am _evil genius! _I am needing no reason to break Galactic Empire charters, although in this case I happen to be having some very good ones – like _plorg-morphosis_, like life and health of my best friend, like whether or no you are even now carrying a little Jumba inside of you because of. . .what happened last night."

"What happened last night. . .happened. There's nothing to be solved by you tinkering around in MY insides. . ." Pleakley stopped for a moment. "There _aren't _any little Jumbas, are there?"

Jumba blinked stupidly, as though the possibility had only now just sunk in. He looked into the diagnosticator and pressed a few buttons.

"No. There aren't."

Both of them let out the breath they'd been unconsciously holding.

"But. . .there might have been," Jumba started again, trying to regain his momentum. "You should have let me conduct an examination _weeks_ago!"

"I. . .didn't want to."

"By the great Kweltika, WHY?!" Jumba felt that he'd just about been pushed to the edge. "Even now, your are refusing to do anything!! Did you _want_ yourself to be ending up this way? Was this all some big plot, to. . .crawl into my bed and, and _seduce _me?"

Startled, Pleakley backed away, shaking his head.

"_No_. I didn't. . . I never wanted to become like, like _this_, or to make you do. . .anything that you didn't want to do. I'm sorry. I really am. I just wasn't. . .thinking." Pleakley wrapped his arms around himself.

"I just. . .I've always felt, well, sort of _wrong_. Just. . .._wrong__._" Pleakley gestured awkwardly to himself, to his body. "Most of my life, anyways. Running off to work for the Empire, studying alien cultures at the academy. Dressing up so I could be someone else. But I then came here, and I fell in love with you. . .and somehow I started to feel _right." _

Eye downcast, he shrugged. "When I started getting sick, I just didn't want to believe it, you know? I kept telling myself that it was some sort of flu, or maybe some sort of inter-planetary allergy. It was STUPID and I know it was a MISTAKE. . .I just didn't want to believe that it really was all _wrong_, that there was just something _wrong_ with me."

Pleakley set his jaw and lifted his eye to meet Jumba's. "And it's not like we can do much about it _now_ is there? I'm going to call Galactic Control tomorrow, tell my family and Madame Councilwoman. I was planning to resign anyways, as soon as we caught the last few experiments. I can catch a passing cruiser to Ploozork and try to find a good doctor. I know there's _some _treatment available."

"You're going to be leaving?" Jumba felt the anger flaring in his nostrils evaporate. He knew that Pleakley's condition was serious, but it hadn't even crossed his mind that it might be _that _serious – serious enough to take Pleakley away from Earth and the home they'd settled into. And somehow the way that Pleakley was being so matter-of-fact about it was more disturbing to him than he would have thought possible.

"Oh, my friend. . .I am so sorry. I had no idea that this was being so hard on you. I will help you, if you want me to, or we could be getting doctor to come _here_, no? It cannot be as bad as you are thinking. Not bad enough to _leave._"

"No, Jumba. . .please. . ._don't,_" protested Pleakley as Jumba gathered him up to give him a comforting hug.

Jumba could feel Pleakley begin to tremble in his arms. His breathing suddenly became erratic. Looked down into Pleakley's face, Jumba could see that he was biting his lip so hard that he was nearly drawing blood.

With a strangled whimper Pleakley threw himself upon Jumba, arms and legs wrapped, lips crushing, pelvis grinding involuntarily in a manner so vulgar and feverish that Jumba was himself caught breathless, eyes wide and motionless for a moment. None-too-gently, Jumba threw Pleakley off of him.

"See?! You don't know how hard it is just to control myself! I _can't_ stay!!" Pleakley lay where he'd landed, no longer able to hold back the sobs that bubbled up from his chest.

Stunned, Jumba took a step back. He stared at his friend, crumpled and broken on the floor in front of him, and felt numb. He sat down on one of the seats still left in the gutted ship.

Looking down into his diagnosticator, Jumba pressed a few buttons to scan quickly through the new cache of files. It _was_ as bad as Pleakley had feared. Not only had his standard male Plorginarian reproductive organs been replaced by those of a more Kweltikwaanian, _female _variety, but his very genetic structure had sampled and incorporated Jumba's Kweltikwaanian genes to make Pleakley suitable for cross-species fertilization. Not that it could exactly be called cross-species – Pleakley wasn't strictly Plorginarian anymore.

Pleakley was his own species now, with only one possible mate in the entire universe – Jumba. They were _his _genes now fused with Pleakley's own, and they were _his _genes that Pleakley's instincts were driving him to pursue for in-utero procreation.

The instinct to reproduce was one of the strongest motivations for all known forms of life in the universe, second only to the survival instinct. Some victims of plorg-morphosis were known to have gone insane from lack of reciprocation from their chosen 'mates', depending on how far along they were in their condition. Pleakley was further along than Jumba had thought possible. Jumba put the diagnosticator down, running his hand over his head.

Jumba's keen intellect was telling him, coldly and matter-of-factly, that leaving was indeed the only solution for Pleakley. All of the treatments available for his illness, long, risky, and expensive though they were, could only be found off-world, probably in one of the facilities on Ploozork, or possibly in one of the research stations orbiting Andali. And even then, if anything was effective, there was nothing that could erase the genetic link that he and Jumba now shared. If they ever came into contact again, chances were good he would revert right back to his current state. Which meant, plainly, that once Pleakley left, he and Jumba could never see each other again. Jumba would even be willing to wager that Pleakley's doctors were also going to forbid communicator contact, letter-writing, postcards, cross-galactic flash-code signals. The only thing that Pleakley could do at this point was to leave and try to forget Jumba entirely, assuming that they didn't simply perform a precision lobotomy to physically remove all of his memories of the last few years.

No. _No. _Pleakley was the best friend he'd ever had. They were 'ohana. Jumba _loved _him. This couldn't be the only answer. Since when had Jumba Jookiba _ever _settled for a standard, mediocre answer?

Jumba slowly opened his eyes and looked over at Pleakley.

His friend was trying his best to rub his cheeks dry, one hand pressed against his mouth in an attempt to swallow his sobs like one would hiccups. He looked up, and for a second while their eyes met Jumba could almost feel physical _heat _emanating from the desire in his gaze before Pleakley forced himself to look away again.

Jumba carefully lacing his fingers together. "Pleakley. . ." he began. "Were you knowing that on my planet, even today, the population is divided into ethnic tribes? There are. . .about a dozen or so, settled on settled on different parts of the land, on the water, and also on the off-world colonies – Maleznika, Seniikal, and so on. Others in the Empire are thinking that when they see a Kweltikwaanian, it is just a Kweltikwaanian, but oh no." Jumba smiled knowingly and waggled his finger from side to side, always somehow pleased to reminisce about his home planet. "A Kweltikwaanian from the tribe of Aseni, for instance, is being miles different from a Kweltikwaanian from the tribe of Vienik, just as my tribe, Ramitak, is different from, say, Birano or those no good _Amanis_." Jumba shook his fist in honour of old rivalries.

"Is being of course, much co-operation between the tribes, and still we only get two seats on the Galactic Council, but _still_, Ramitak is being different from Birano is being different from Amani." He spread his hands and shrugged.

"And. . .there is a custom on my planet, which has been a custom of all the tribes for many centuries. You see, every so often, there may happen that two people from different tribes are falling in _love, _and so in order that they can stay together, one of them must leave their tribe and join the tribe of the other." He folded his hands.

"Then, for the rest of their lives, there is a _responsibility _owed to the one that left their tribe. They left their _tribe, _you see – their family, friends, way of living, for this other person. That person cannot now be leaving them or treating them badly. . .must take care of them, respect them, be there for them.Is being a very important duty. In my language, is called _Melaan_." Jumba smiled comfortingly at Pleakley, waiting for him to see the obvious parallel, but Pleakley still didn't seem to be as happy as Jumba seemed to think he should be.

"So. . .you think you owe me this 'melaan' now?" Pleakley shook his head. "You don't. There's only one person who fell in love here."

"You were the one who fell in love, yes, but I. . .do love you." Jumba said gently. "It would not be a heavy burden. I would be honoured. . ."

" –to what? Even if you did owe me 'melaan', this is a completely _different _situation, Jumba!" said Pleakley, anger finally making him rise to his feet. "Stop being so stupid and. . .making me think that there's anything you can do to make this situation better. You. . .already help take care of me, and respect me and everything. There's only _one _more thing want from you now," he hissed.

"I know," Jumba stated evenly.

Pleakley gulped. "You'd better not be suggesting what I think you're suggesting. I. . .couldn't," he said with obvious effort, wrapping his arms around himself in what may have been either a self-reassuring or a self-restraining gesture. "I couldn't make you do something as. . .disgusting to you as. . .as last night."

Jumba shook his head. "Last night was _not_ disgusting. Surprising, yes. Strange. . .a little. Possibly will take some getting used to before is being completely comfortable. But honestly. . .did I look very disgusted?"

Pleakley bit his lip, looking down and still trying not to let the impossible possibility into his mind that this might be true.

Jumba sighed. "One of panels here folds down into a bed, and little girl was saying that they will be making roast of chicken tonight, so we will not have to be home for. . .at least an hour." If this was the alternative to losing Pleakley altogether, then so be it. Jumba didn't know how to make it any clearer that he _really _didn't mind.

"Pleakley. . .do you know how long has been since someone was crawling into my bed and _seducing _me?"

While the substance of which Pleakley's arms were made wasn't exactly rubber, it was surprisingly close in cellular structure.

The Plorginarian made a running leap into Jumba's arms. They shared a growing smile and, once a proper angle was worked out, a long, curious, but satisfying kiss.


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note: This be the last chapter in the series. Thanks all for reading, and hope you liked it. Also, many, many heartfelt thanks to WeyrdChic, betareader extraordinaire.

Chapter 6

The first issue they felt must be addressed, of course, was that of their bedroom walls. They were entirely too thin. On a quiet night you could hear even the most innocent rustling of bedclothes clear into the kitchen, and the sounds that Pleakley made when they were together would be enough to wake the entire 'ohana should they be foolish enough to try anything in the house. Luckily, Jumba had spent some time in his youth refitting old race cruisers, which required reliable, lightweight soundproofing in order to withstand the speed booming of atmosphere-bound racetracks, and he could synthesize the paint-like substance out of seawater and toilet cleanser. It came out a light shade of periwinkle, which worked out rather well because it was one of Pleakley's favourite colours, and the rest of the 'ohana didn't suspect anything odd when they announced they were going to put a new coat of paint on their bedroom walls.

The pull-out bed on the ship was to say the least somewhat small and uncomfortable, and though only a _little_ bit of hilarity ensued from the times they spent there, they both agreed that they would have to find a more suitable locations for their . . . encounters.

Next, of course, was the subject of birth control. It took another week or so before Pleakley's physiology finished changing and he developed the full capacity to conceive and bear children, so they were safe for a little while until they had the chance to rush-order a supply of pills from Kweltikwaan that Jumba could take to inhibit his fertility. Back during his married years he'd gotten used to taking one every morning, so it wasn't very hard for him to get back into the old habit, but he still didn't like the occasional mood swings. It was worth it to him, both then and now, however, to be the one responsible for that particular issue. His ex-wife had tried once to get herself pregnant (which on Kweltikwaan meant a marital life-sentence), and even though both he and Pleakley had agreed that the last thing they wanted was to have any little Jumbas running around, Pleakley still sent Jumba into fits of paranoid fright every time he cooed over diaper commercials or the squirming contents of a passing stroller.

For the first few weeks Jumba didn't sleep a single night through without Pleakley climbing up into his bunk to wake him as he went through an initial phase that could only adequately be described as a frenzy of sexual desire. Jumba couldn't even take an afternoon nap without being ambushed for _more_, and the resulting exhaustion made those first weeks nothing but a delirious blur in his mind.

Luckily for the sanity of all involved, this phase passed, and by the second month Pleakley was better able to exercise self-control in limiting the frequency and urgency of his demands. Usually Jumba could tell now when he should be expecting another visit. Once or twice a week there would be a day when he would find Pleakley looking at him more often – stolen glances across the room, across the couch, or even across conversations with other people. Staring, when he could get away with it. Smiling when he thought Jumba wasn't watching, but Jumba could usually see him from his corner eyes.

When their gaze finally met it became a question. Jumba never denied him. Pleakley had never really had to ask, but he did now, out of respect. They would smile at each other and later that night Jumba would find Pleakley waiting patiently for him in the top bunk, covers drawn up demurely over his otherwise unclothed body.

This state of affairs was to continue for only six months.

It was foolish for them to pretend that they could go on as they had forever, not with Jumba being as he was and with Pleakley's demands of him being as they were. They both knew the risks they were taking, and the possible consequence. Somehow neither was willing to alter their chosen situation. And so, half a year after the start of their strange compromise, the inevitable inevitably happened.

They broke the bunkbed.

Jumba swore colourfully in Kweltikwaanian as he dumped the last remnants of their former bed into the kitchen re-moleculizer. He'd gotten three slivers already from the hopeless wreck of wood – this would be the fourth and it was almost not worth having recycled the stuff for the ship fuel it would synthesize. This Earth wood was just so _soft _– completely unsuitable for furniture, boats, houses, and everything else humans seemed to like crafting from the stuff.

Not like the trees on Kweltikwaan – now those were some _trees_. They were almost as good as the substance that Jumba had ordered from off-world to make their new bed with. It is an incredibly awkward and uncomfortable thing to fall through one's own bed mid-snuggle, and Jumba didn't intend for it to happen again.

"Here – let me do that." Having just come in, Pleakley set down his shopping bag and padded over to where Jumba stood uselessly sucking on his injured finger. With a few gentle squeezes he had the sliver out from under Jumba's skin and flicked it into the re-moleculizer.

With a brief smile Pleakey kissed Jumba's finger and set about putting away the fruits and veggies that he'd brought home. Nani was at work and Lilo was at school with 626 – they had the whole house to themselves for the afternoon.

"It's about time you got that done," said Pleakley. "If you'd waited any longer, the new beds would have gotten here and we'd still have that mess in the bedroom."

"Shipment _did _get here this morning – is why I cleaned. Is already assembled in there." Jumba gestured grumpily towards the bedroom. "What has been taking you so long?"

Pleakley jauntily tucked the last of the papayas into the refrigerator. "Oh, you know . . . I went to get the groceries and just thought I'd pop into a few boutiques in town for some window shopping, and I guess I sort of just lost track of the time. I went to Giselle's, and Chic-Chic Shoes, and Angelo Fashions . . .–"

"And Mrs. Tweedle's Fabrics, no doubt," Jumba commented. Pleakley continued as if he hadn't heard him.

" – and _Le Nouveau Chapeau, _that fabulous new hat store in the mall. Of course I didn't buy anything – well, I didn't buy much." Pleakley nonchalantly retrieved the small remaining bag from the table. "Did you say that you'd set up the beds already?"

Jumba nodded. "Courier arrived this morning just after you left. Benzenite must be shaped, assembled and welded together no more than a few days after it is mined, or it sets and becomes useless. There had been delay during shipping and there was not being much time left." Jumba shrugged.

"Well, that certainly was fast. I think I'll go take a look." Pleakley headed towards the bedroom.

"Pleakley, _wait!"_ he shouted just as Pleakley left the room. Pleakley ducked back in, puzzled. For a second there it had sounded as though Jumba was angry, though he couldn't fathom why.

Jumba folded his arms. "I am not being comfortable with this. Not at all."

Pleakley stood calmly, waiting for more, but none came.

"Well, if you don't like it, we can always send it back, or throw it out, and get another one. Who cares if it's made of Benzenite, or whatever."

"Benzenite is one of five super-strong substances in galaxy – we could not just be throwing out now. And that is not what I am talking about." Jumba took a deep breath. "I am thinking we need to be having talk about. . .our _relationship_."

Pleakley looked at him warily. "Oh?" he finally said.

Jumba realized that he'd been wringing his hands, and stopped himself.

"There is still the question. . .I think we need to be talking about. . .what will happen. . . It is seeming to me that we have been avoiding the subject of how long we want all of _this _to be lasting."

Pleakley stared down at his feet, saying nothing. Slowly, he walked past Jumba and put his shopping bag back down on the table, then went to the sink to pour himself a glass of water. When he'd had a sip or two he put his glass on the table by the bag and looked up again.

"_Oh_," Pleakley said, sitting down. He sipped on his water. He didn't there was much to say. He _had _been avoiding the subject, in the most fundamental way possible. He knew it couldn't possibly last. He _knew _it. For the past six months he hadn't even let the barest shadow of the thought of this ending cross his mind, but he knew. He'd spent his days deliriously happy, like a terminally ill cancer patient on a last-wish vacation. Why rage against the inevitable when he could just enjoy his remaining days? There would be time enough to cry when it ended. Like now.

"Oh, my little one-eyed one." Jumba stepped forward to comfort his friend. "Shhh. . .shhhh. Do not cry." Leaning down, Jumba slipped his hand around Pleakley's waist and guided him up for a long, gentle kiss.

Pleakley did stop crying. Jumba was kissing him, so it wasn't over yet. Not yet – that's all that mattered. When they parted and Jumba smiled at him, he did his best to smile back and wipe away his tears.

"It is hasty to be crying, I think, my friend," said Jumba.

Jumba reached over brought Pleakley's shopping bag closer so he could look inside. Folded neatly on the bottom under a package of socks was a smaller bag with the word's 'Mrs. Tweedle's Fabrics' printed on the front. With an amused smile Jumba carefully lifted out the contents.

Pleakley stared down blearily at the small length of red satin that Jumba laid on his lap. It wasn't very big – maybe a few square yards. It didn't need to be, considering what it was going to be made into. There were a few other things as well – a bit of lace, some sheer nylon, black ribbon for a garter belt. Ever since Pleakley had discovered the wide, wonderful world of women's underthings, he'd become a discount-card-carrying regular at Mrs. Tweedle's, who knew her satin underwear patterns better than any woman her age probably should. Victoria's Secret didn't carry anything that met his particular specifications, but with an eye for pattern and a little determination he'd still been able to treat Jumba to a new outfit nearly every week.

"It will look good on you. The colour is complimenting your skin.," said Jumba.

Pleakley nodded in reply.

"Don't you already have red?"

Pleakley picked up the fabric. "Yes, but this one's completely _different_. The last one was vermillion red, this one is cherry. And this is _silk­_-satin. See – it's shiny on one side and velvety on the other." Pleakley smiled gently. "It's soft – see?" He held the fabric up to Jumba, who took it and placed it back into its shopping bag.

"I will feel it when it is being finished.," Jumba said, handing the bag back to Pleakley, who stared at it blankly until Jumba stroked his cheek and brought him back around.

"The lace interpanels will be a little complicated. It won't be done for at least. . .two weeks." Pleakley looked up at Jumba sadly, expectantly.

"Well, then I will feel it in two weeks. Did I say we would not be together in two weeks?"

Pleakley took a deep breathe, steeling himself. "Well, if not that soon, then when? You want to talk about it. . .so let's talk. I mean. . .all the studies say that I'll probably be fine now that the first few months are over with. I might even be able to get effective treatment. If you don't want to keep on going like this, well, I would understand. I _would_." Pleakley looked down into his lap. "I love you. I want you to be happy. You've done more than enough already."

Jumba shook his head and lifted Pleakley's chin for a brief kiss. "Must you be always so melodramatic?"

Pleakley stuck his lip out petulantly. "Yes, I _do, _if you're going to be Mr. Grumpypants about everything!"

Chuckling, Jumba gathered Pleakley up in his arms and carried him towards the bedroom.

"Shipping company made mistake, I'm afraid," said Jumba as he placed Pleakley on the bed. The large, wrought-metal, _single _bed.

"Oh, is _that _what you were all upset about?"

Jumba sat down beside him and sighed. "There were not enough Benzenite rods for two beds, only one slightly larger bed. Also only one mattress and set of sheets. So, I guess, for time being, we are being stuck."

"Well, you know Jumba, if you really don't like it, we _can _always send it back. It _was_ the shipping company's mistake, and the one good thing about having a sister who's the CEO of a minor galaxy is that if you want the pants sued off somebody, well mister, you just have to buy a matching blouse because those pants are _yours._"

Jumba laughed. "Maybe." He said, stretching out so lay down beside Pleakley. "But then we would have to send whole thing back to make claim, and we would be sleeping on floor again while we waited, and well. . .I was thinking that it would just be easier this way." He shrugged. "Besides, it seems to be ending up that you are always climbing up to sleep with me, anyways, even on nights when we are not doing. . .anything."

Pleakley reached over to stroke his wrist. "Yeah, well, I don't have to, if you don't want me to. You do have the right to sleep alone when you want to, you know."

"But you see I do not _really _not want you to. . . it is, well, not being so bad, sometimes. . ." Jumba closed his eyes, and suddenly pounded the mattress with his fist in frustration. "How are we going to be keeping this secret now, eh? _How_? 'Ohana will be guessing now for certain, and of course your mother will be finding out, and then will get back to Intergalactic Council, and may even be reaching _Kweltikwaan_. . ." Jumba stared at the ceiling, wide-eyed in horror, until a thought occurred to him. He frown and looked over at Pleakley. "You have not been telling ex-wife about this, have you?"

Pleakley blinked. "Um. . .noooo."

"_Oh_, by the great trees of Kwelta, _you have!_" Jumba threw his hands over his face in despair.

"I didn't tell her anything,I swear! She just rang me up to chat one day, and after we'd been talking for a little while I happened to mention you in passing, and she looked at me and went 'OH MY GOODNESS YOU HAVE BEEN SHTOOPING MY EX-HUSBAND!' I didn't mention _anything _about us – she just knew."

Jumba groaned. "And then what did she do?"

"Well, she just stared at me for a little while, and then, well, she started laughing. She. . .laughed a lot. I had to call her back."

Jumba dragged his hands down his face. "Yes, now I will be laughingstock of entire home planet, I am sure." He closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath.

Pleakly was well aware that the idea of a Plorginarian and a Kweltikwaanian together wasn't only a little ridiculous, so he didn't take this statement as an insult. He reached over to stroke Jumba's elbow, and before he had the chance to say anything self-sacrificing, Jumba snorted and shook his head.

"Bah! When have I ever been caring what home planet is thinking of me? I am better than that – better than all of _them._ And I will _shtoop _whoever I am liking, you great battle-axe!" He shook his fist towards the ceiling.

Pleakley smiled and leaned his head on Jumba's shoulder. Jumba lifted his arm and tucked him closer.

"She was the one who told you how to do that _thing_, was she not?" he asked.

"How did you know?" Pleakley blushed.

Jumba shrugged. "Who else would have told you? You were not knowing enough on the subject to be thinking it up yourself." Jumba drummed the fingers of one hand against his belly. "Well, at least it is good to know that she is having no resentments. I never thought I would care. . .but it is good." He kissed the top of Pleakley's head and sighed. "I never did tell you what it was like for me to get married, did I?"

Pleakley shook his head.

"It was _horrible_. Unmitigated disaster. We were. . .young, and we were in love, for little while at least, I believe. And we were _always _trying to do what we thought, well, what other people had been telling us was 'correct thing to do.' We date for prescribed amount of time, we get married, we move into apartment. We try to _be _for each other what we have been told we should be. We try _so _hard, but it is all wrong. It all falls apart." Jumba shook his head. "We make each other miserable."

Absently, Jumba toyed with the hem of Pleakley's skirt. Hiking it up a little, Jumba looked down to see the colour of today's garter belt – green, to match his dress. He smiled a little and ran his finger down the soft ribbon.

"You must understand why I am being so. . .uncomfortable. This. . .whatever it is we have, was never supposed to be _relationship. _Was not even supposed to be _affair_. Was just. . .was just going to be _me _and _you. _Being friends. Being 'ohana. Living together in same little house, and sometimes sharing same bed."

Jumba frowned. "But somehow it is not being so simple. Somehow, it _is _relationship. It is commitment. It is responsibility to each other. It is. . .everything that made me miserable when I was married. But yet, I am not being so miserable. I. . ." Jumba swallowed hard. "The truth. . .is that you are making me very happy. And for reasons beyond even my comprehension, I am making you very happy. And we are not even trying very hard."

Jumba stared up at the ceiling in contemplation. Reaching over, he found Pleakley's hand and took it gently in his own. "I do not know how long this will last. Could be weeks, could be months. . .who knows?"

He brought his other hand up to rub Pleakley's arm. "I built this bed to last for long time – maybe forever." He murmured, almost to himself. "This is not something I wanted. I would not have chosen this situation, if I had been given the choice. It has simply been. . .thrust upon me. But I would not change it. It makes me quite uncomfortable, yes. . .but I think that is simply because I am not used to happiness being so easy."

Pleakley leaned up to kiss Jumba's cheek, his tears of joy trickling down onto his temple. Jumba smiled and held him closer.

"Somehow. . .I think I will adapt."

The End


End file.
